The Realm of Meats

Dylan realizes that there is so much more to the Astral plane than what she has utilized to be the errand-bitch of Mr. Helgorimir and for her own personal... fulfillment so to say.

So, once other Astral-like tasks are completed for a night(s), she would explore... explore the realm into which she willingly entrusts her whatever is left of her soul.

She would first explore, hidden, avoiding other... entities until she was able to potentially gather or maybe sort of understand something about whatever entity she might encounter. Observe, then interact accordingly...

Influence Response:

You sit down to abandon your dross and ugly corpus to the unfettered realms of thought, letting the gray matter that insulates your head unravel into long meaty puppet-hooks with which to pull your soul free.

It's very quiet when you get out this time, and the ether-space around you has a static motionless quality to it that you try as hard as you can not to find disconcerting. Your mind swims with deja vu as images of poor Mr. Renkins and his two compatriots float through your detached and extra-bodily thought-words. You can see them - now twisted masses of strung out gut and tissue, beckoning to you from the corners of your vision, but never appearing to meet you head on. Piece by piece by piece of bone and sinew... the cables of bully-boy-flesh knit themselves together somewhere around the back of you, until they form a structure that reaches high enough that when you turn to look at it, you cannot see it's summit.

It's so funny too. You can't even remember killing them. Not really...

The spire of flesh is there, nevertheless, and around it's base you can see a rich parade of chubby little maggots and worms weaving up and down the surface. Some bear simian or humanoid features and faces. Some don't. Some are colored like pandas or birds of paradise. Some carry little bundles of more maggots. Some carry other things. Some are made entirely of fat little coils of some sort of rainbowy-bright liquid. Some are most likely a figment of your imagination. You're pretty certain that one is a stage magician... whatwuzhisname... yes... the amazing Mr. Phantasmo.

You come to a vague understanding that they, like you, are travellers, searching for some form of enlightenment in the pockets of fat and lymph that make up their stairway.

You wander in space toward the spire, but find that you never draw any closer to it. It, in fact, seems more and more distant on the horizon as you wander towards it - and it's only when you realize that the horizon has vanished from your vision altogether, that you manage to really get much of anywhere.

You stop looking around you, and start to look in a direction you're not entirely sure existed before - moving in a space that you're pretty sure leaves an imprint of your three-dimensional thought-body smeared across the ether. It's like a miniature implosion as you collapse and writhe inward.... yes... sort of like crawling inside your own belly-button, and unsurprisingly and much to your liking, you find that the forth dimension adequately reflects this by being made out of meat!

Poor stupid silly-silly little Alex was made of meat too.

In any event, you wander in meat space back toward what used to be the meat-spire, but now has been rendered into some sort of meat-funnel due to the effects of inversion... you think. As you descend toward it, you can hear something akin to a warbly high-pitched song screaming through your head... and looking around you see that the meat is gone, replaced with a solid ringing music stuff that looks like pink cold marble.

Over your head is a sky, half night and half day, and fretted with gold and stars.

All around your feet are doors... thousands of thousands of doors, each leading in different cold pinkish directions... you pick one at random and fling it open, feeling a warm almost imperceptible heart beat vibrating through the air as you do so. Looking into the hallway it opens up on, you see a seemingly endless tunnel, leading to who-knows where. You decide it's worth a try and start down it.

After what seems like hours of walking, you see no end in sight, and decide to turn back, looking behind you, you see that a woman stands immediately in back of you. Her right eye is a vacant maw...stripped to the socket.

Caroline?

You don't know how she got in back of you, or how she's followed you so silently, or even if she was there a moment ago... but you know that she... you... Mona... Caroline is there, and that she loves you.

You don't have time to react before she pulls you close to her and clasps your face to hers, eye to eye to eye to oblivion. She jams her dead socket up against your left eye, and with tiny little rice-sized teeth you didn't see before, begins to gently break and chew away the retina. You hold yourself transfixed as she works, and are surprisingly unfazed when your eye bursts forth teeth as well to bite her back.

Your eye-mouths soon lock themselves in a desperate and passionate kiss - something better than sex or ecstasy or love or thought itself.

You don't recall when you come to.

Rain Dylan Morgan; March 25, 2008

PERSONAL ACTION:

A realm made of meat! How wonderfully full of sense! How lovely. And I just donated all that meat to those shelters too. Meat is very important to everything. It is the base for all things, seen and unseen.

But, that spire. I could never reach it. I want to get there. I want to see what it is. Just how far is it?

And those doors! Wow. I've never seen so many. Not even at the hardware store. So many different kinds. I wonder where they all lead... where they all go...

And Ms. Caroline. I wonder what she is doing here? Why is she here? Is this the realm of the dead? How interesting... it would be wonderful if it was. It was odd that she was there though... I should ask her what she does in the meat realm and if there are any cool vacationing spots or sightseeing that I should do...

Primary disciplines: Auspex x1, x2, x4, x5; Obfuscate x3 (generic). Any other abilities/disciplines are also used as needed.

Influence Response:

With slow and deliberate meditation, you return to the more surreal areas of astral plane and find yourself once more looking at the spire without an end and without a beginning. It's different this time, not made of meat proper at all, but rather, as you can now clearly see, formed of a plain reddish pinkish marble, whose various veins and crannies only slightly resemble the mottled fatty tissue of dead animal remains. Those walking upon it's paths are now clearly defined in unmaggoty light, although they are no less surreal. You see men without faces. You see golems composed entirely of what looks to be flurries of song birds. You see slight shimmers of light that babble with all known languages you have ever heard and leave a ringing in your ears that always sounds vaguely like your mother. You see what seems to be a single sentient set of male genitalia, moving with anthropomorphic fervor up the road to enlightenment. It is wearing a monocle.

No matter how much you focus on it this time, however, the world of flesh does not reappear, and you remain a non-inversion of singular youness.

You can approach the spire in forward motion this time as your perambulations toward it actually propel you in what is seemingly the correct direction in three dimensional space. You also, this time can, make out the large structure of seeming Greco-Roman construction that sits at the base of the spire, made of the same pink marble. It seems like a building you've walked past a hundred times, and it's porticoes and fountains seem strangely inviting. Without your omphalic inversion taking you back to the meaty plane previous explored, you allow yourself to be drawn to the edifice. It seems so funny you never saw it before.

Once inside you see rows upon rows of hallways, suspended in seemingly infinite and pristine configuration, and you swiftly recognize them to be the various portals from the plane of meats. Toward the center of all these pathways lies an atrium, in the center of which is gasoline rainbow colored fountain beckoning to you with a strawberry daiquiri scented haze. Above it sits a dome fretted with fire and sunlight, and above you can see the sky - half night, half day. Without hesitation, you dip the platonic ideal of your head into the depths of the font - Your brain explodes into a vaporous mist of blue gray green slug slime as you do, and you can feel and effervescent fizz massage the outpouring nervous tendrils of your exposed upper spine.

It tastes like a mixture of blood, Lysol, and the delicately preserved and sugared lungs of a stillborn baby seal.

A bright halo of light drifts toward your now headless body and turns chartreuse as you waddle, decapitated over to a bench. From somewhere that you cannot see comes the voice of a man whom you somehow know has the image of a rampant chimera embroidered on his aura. He speaks with a lilting and subtle Southern accent.

"You must be a new one... didn't think that'd happen though."

You feel the skin around your neck peel back slightly as some part of his mind penetrates yours. The tongue of the chimera's tail hisses vibrantly.

Your unknown companion seems taken aback.

"Damnation girl! Damnation and hellfire!"

You can feel a series of sparks eat up your skin all in a tremendous and terrible WHOOSHBANGpopGurgle noise You have no idea from whence they are coming...